starters, though it’s going to feel like it, this isn’t technically ‘jail’,” I began. “This is pretty much just a holding place until we can get you before a judge. When that happens, we argue for getting you released pending trial, and we go from there.”
“Is that like bail?” he asked plaintively.
“Yes. If we’re lucky, the court will release you without bail, but because it’s a murder case, and it is getting a fair bit of media attention, we will likely have to try to post bond. It’s called a ‘surety’, and it’s the court’s way of having you guarantee that you’ll show up for trial.”
“I don’t have much money,” he began to protest. I recognized that any legal fees I could expect to collect, just like in the olden days, were likely to be picked up by Legal Aid. So much for hiring an investigator and assistant. At Legal Aid rates, I would be lucky if I could recoup my photocopy costs. My ex-wife would be so proud.
“You don’t generally have to put up too much money. We won’t have to worry about that for a while,” I told him, easing into the bad news.
“When will I be bailed out? How long do I have to stay here?”
“Under the Criminal Code, you’re generally entitled to a first court appearance within twenty-four hours or as soon as possible. But it’s Friday night. That means the likelihood of us finding a sitting judge on the weekend is pretty slim. I think it’s one of the reasons they arrested you so quickly. They buy a couple more days of investigative time while you have to wait for your first court appearance.”
“But that’s not fair,” he protested. He was beginning to sound like one of his own students, complaining about an upcoming exam or major assignment that infringed on their teenage social life.
“Legally, it is fair. There’s really nothing I can do about that. The good news is that it will also buy me a couple of days to start preparing to get you out of here. Look, the police know you’re not some hardened, career criminal. But they believe you killed Tricia.”
“But I didn’t.” He slammed his open palm down on the table. “I didn’t kill her. Winston, I loved Trish.” Clearly, he had sobered up from his alcoholic haze of earlier in the evening. He had resumed speaking of his lover in the past tense.
“Right now, believe it or not, that doesn’t really matter. The detectives, and probably the Crown Counsel who has been assigned to this case, believe they’ve caught their man. They also figure that since this was some kind of crime of passion, by arresting you tonight and leaving you to cool your heels over the weekend, you’ll be scared into making some kind of plea by the time we get into your first appearance on Monday.”
“They think that I’m going to plead guilty?” he asked indignantly. “I didn’t kill her.”
“That’s not what they believe, and they’re hoping they can avoid a messy trial by having you cop a plea.”
“I’m not pleading guilty to killing the woman I loved,” he insisted vehemently.
“Let’s not worry about that right now. And for the time being, I don’t want you referring to Tricia as ‘the woman you loved’. In fact, I don’t want you referring to anyone or to anything about your case. Have you got that? Not a word. Not to a guard, not to a detective, not to a Crown prosecutor. No one. You don’t say anything about the murder or your relationship with Tricia unless I’m present. You understand?”
“Okay,” he relented. “I won’t say anything.”
That dispensed with, I figured our time was just about up. There was nothing more I could do for my friend right now. “Good,” I said, rising from the table. Walking around to his side, I placed my hand on his shoulder. “This is going to be a really tough time, Carl. It will be worse than anything you’ve been through, but we’ve got some time on our hands. My first job will be to get you out of here on Monday. Then, we’re going to work on ensuring there’s no way this ever gets to trial. But it isn’t going to be easy. We’ll have lots of work to do.”
He looked up at me, placing his hand across mine, still on his shoulder. “I don’t know how I’m going to thank you. I don’t have much, but I’ll pay you as my lawyer, I promise you that.”
“We’ll take care of that later.” I walked towards the door to notify the sheriff’s officer that we were done. Then I turned to face Carl again.
“I’m going to ask you something one more time. It’s not a question defence counsel generally get into. It isn’t technically relevant, but I’m not just a lawyer any more. I’m a servant to two loyalties, so I’m going to ask you anyway. Whatever your answer is, I’m still going to be your lawyer, and I’m going to defend you. But for my own state of mind, I have to know the absolute, honest truth. Did you kill her?”
Carl’s eyes filled with tears. I knew and—damn it—believed the answer before he even spoke it. “No. I told you. I loved her. I would have given my life for her. I did not kill her.”
“Okay.” Running my hand through my hair with exhaustion, I regarded him one last time. “I’m very relieved to hear that. Is there someone you want me to call?”
He looked absolutely lost. His wife had already taken off to her parents’. It didn’t seem likely she was going to want to come visit him in jail. “I don’t think so.”
I knocked on the door. “I’ll check in with you tomorrow. Try to get some rest, all right?”
“All right,” was all he could muster. The door hummed as an electronic pass card key buzzed the lock and the sheriff’s officer poked his head in.
“We’re done,” I told him. “Goodnight, Carl.”
He was slumped at the table as the sheriff came to escort him to his first-ever jail cell. I turned and headed down the hallway towards the front entrance, unable to watch.
Fifteen
A funny thing happened when I returned to my apartment after leaving Carl: I slept. Almost immediately upon closing my door, a wave of tiredness hit me. It was like walking into a big wall of exhaustion. In fact, I was so tired, I actually felt nauseous.
I’m no scientist, but when I feel that way, it is a sign I should go to sleep. Simple as it sounds, for those of us for whom sleep is a constant battle, just the notion of going to bed can fill you with anxiety. The bags under my eyes add at least five years to my age.
It was nearly two a.m. as I undressed, carefully picking up my clothes and placing them in the laundry hamper next to the ensuite bathroom door. Sandi was always amazed at what she deemed my obsessive need for tidiness and order around the house. We would come home from a party or family gathering—and with her family, there was always a wide assortment of social responsibilities—and Sandi would simply dump her clothes on the floor, only to wait in bed while I went around picking them up and hanging them in the closet where they belonged, or placing them in their assigned spot in the laundry room.
In the past week, I had accumulated probably around eight hours of sleep. Sleep deficit often catches up with me at the strangest times. No doubt many lawyers taking on a murder case, especially when it was the kind of case likely to be difficult, long and very public, would sit up all night worrying about the case and beginning a mental to-do list of briefs to prepare, witnesses to interview, and assorted menial startup tasks ad infinitum.
I found myself remarkably calm. It was as though returning to my original calling had brought about an inner peace. That worried me. Fortunately, it didn’t worry me enough to lose sleep. I literally collapsed into bed and crashed.
The phone rang minutes later. Actually, it was hours later, but the phone’s interruption of my sleep made it seem as if I had just lain down. The only thing worse than the phone ringing and waking you up is when it gives two short rings instead of just one. As nearly every apartment dweller knows, the double ring is an indicator someone is standing outside the front door of the